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obedient trot.
    The fourthlings knew Ogre’s Death from etchings and stories, but now they were seeing it for the first time for themselves.
    Hundreds of cycles had passed since the last dwarf of Goïmdil journeyed through Girdlegard to visit his kinsfolk in the south.
     In ancient times the dwarven folks had come together every few cycles to celebrate festivals in honor of Vraccas and thank
     the Smith for creating their race, but the fall of the Stone Gateway, the invasion of the orcs, ogres, and älfar, and the
     annihilation of the fifthlings had put a stop to that.
    “Thank Vraccas we’re here,” sighed Gandogar, standing up in his stirrups to give his saddle-sore bottom a brief respite.
    None of the company had any instinct for riding. As true dwarves, they would never consent to making a journey on horses;
     the beasts were untrustworthy and the saddles could be reached only by means of a stepladder, which was far too undignified.
     It was bad enough riding on ponies.
    Their distrust of the animals ran so deep that two of the party refused to ride altogether and were traveling in small, easily
     maneuverable chariots at the back of the procession.
    “We’ll all be glad when the journey is over,” said Bislipur, spitting sand from his mouth.
    The woes of their travels were partly forgotten as Ogre’s Death’s magnificent masonry loomed into view. Gandogar’s eyes traveled
     over the exquisitely ornamented turrets and walls — even the outermost rampart was a work of art, graced with plinths, statues,
     pillars, and other embellishments.
Our folk boasts the finest gem cutters and diamond polishers, but Beroïn’s masons are second to none.
    The gates to the first of the four terraces swung open and Gandogar’s company was admitted to a courtyard. Sverd had dismounted
     and was standing by his pony. Bislipur signaled for him to fall in at the rear of the group.
    Dwarves seldom showed their age, but the figure who came toward them had seen three hundred cycles or more. “Greetings, King
     Gandogar Silverbeard of Goïmdil’s folk. My name is Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers and on behalf of our
     ruler, Gundrabur Whitecrown, high king of all dwarves, I welcome you and your company to the secondling kingdom of Beroïn’s
     folk.”
    Clad in a tunic of chain mail, the stocky dwarf was carrying a battle-ax at his waist. His weapons belt was secured by a finely
     worked stone clasp. Marble trinkets had been braided into his graying beard and a long plait dangled behind him.
    “Come, brothers, follow me.”
    He started on the path that rose toward the stronghold. As he turned, the fourthlings noticed that he was missing one arm.
    Gandogar conjectured that the limb had been lost to one of Tion’s minions. In all other respects, the secondling was powerfully
     built, perhaps because of the strength required for working with stone. His right hand was heavily callused, almost bearlike
     in size, the fingers exuding a power that lived up to the name of his clan.
    The company followed Balendilín through several gateways until they reached the fourth and final terrace, where he signaled
     for them to stop. At last they could appreciate the full genius of the stronghold’s design. Their host gestured to the doors
     that led into the mountain. “Dismount and leave your ponies here. We’ll take good care of them, I assure you. The delegates
     are expecting you in the great hall.”
    He led the procession into a tunnel of such vast proportions that a dragon could have entered with ease. What truly took the
     visitors’ breath away, though, was the masonry. Nine-sided stone columns, each measuring ten paces in circumference, rose
     like fossilized trees. The ceiling was so high as to be invisible, the columns soaring into space.
Perhaps the crown of the mountain is supported by pillars,
thought Gandogar, gazing at his surroundings in awe.
    Stone arches, richly decorated with carvings, spanned the